An Inconsiderate Trope
by Batya000
Summary: OC/OC


**An inconsiderate trope**

**Jazz' POV**

Whoever invented the narrative that death is sort of like a whimsical pinnacle, or this _fantastic,_ nearing to a cresting momentum has to be the most moronic and unreliable narrator there is, all jokes asides and while I'm convinced that certain romanticism had to be pushed against bereavement's natural hopelessness to ever grasp a reader, I can't help but gravely oath its dangerous expectative, its irresponsibility and lack of real empathy, for it idolizes an utterly disturbing loss that twirls solely around powerlessness, incredulousness and unfathomable grief.

I'm convinced that modern readers drool behind fantasies enhanced by the likes of Jay Asher, Paulo Coelho and the Hollywood-esque misrepresentation that upholds the popular storyline that _Death_ as it is, is sort of an outstanding spectacle for the ones that stay. Harmonious violins and suspenseful close-ups of your tears and a dying light behind someone's eyes, flashbacks compelling with tenderness their last breath as your monologue come around, and it always talks about love and an unnervingly clear image of the upcoming sorrow.

In this prevalent and entertaining way of seeing death, you somehow come to immediately appreciate and victimize the person that left. The beauty of memories and sad recollections plague those who outrun the melancholic music box. It impresses me in their whole cluelessness; their scripted soliloquy is bursting of elegiac considerations filled with hedonistic lamentations that aren't even close to the sinking reality of unpretentious processes of mourn.

The truth is, you never think about the future when you are in those feet. For you, the earth stopped right where they left and no, I am not speaking about cinematic slow-motion, in all frankness, I am talking about the speediness that comes with emptiness. It's just a cease of reality, it's nothing but complex disarrays of hollowness and nothingness that easily become your everything.

Just can't think, at least not something that isn't gibberish and at the same time, you are aware you are still there, thinking, existing, passing through that unsettling threshold. Feeling.

Because I've yet to have my monologue.

Aksel sits beside me and I realized I haven't yet to feel nothing but somber solemnness. I lean against my back and I sigh, inaudible and I've managed to blink just a few times. The writers that always convey a tale of lyrical tragedy and crumpled but beautiful thoughts of undying love and pretty tears they all have lied. Because my lover for the past two years just committed suicide and I have yet to hear a single violin cry for him.

Death is simple.

There is no loud screech to heaven.

There is no protagonist to realize that their lover's death might be their breaking point for them to live on and become a multifaceted hero with a disastrous past. There is no earth-shattering promise to do the right thing 'for them', there is no motivation behind someone's passing. Not a plot-twist that may avenge their death. There is no secret villain to blame. There is no plot-filled mission that might bring them back to life. There is no melancholic letter that reads his ill mind out loud. And even if I had to read a suicide letter, I would only hear my toneless voice back.

There is just nothing in between. It is as simple as existing. Aksel is just dead.

Right now it's just him and I, sharing a space we will no longer be part of for the rest of at least, my life. I, of course, couldn't have stopped him if this is what he wanted, I just don't understand him, not even now. I can't tell I have the spirit to forgive him while I stare at his sliced wrists and I suddenly have the urge to puke. I've been staring for far too long at his pale hand and somehow I am induced to think it will move and all of this nightmare will dissipate like the air that once allowed him to breathe.

Aksel is dead. His head is hanging low as if he fell asleep sitting, just that his eyes are open and the youthful blush on his cheeks is not there. His hair is loose and the rebellious strands cover half of his face, his skin is cold and as if the blood is not pooling thickly enough, when I first saw him I had to crawl in front of him and look at his darkened eyes to finally assure myself that he is no longer with me. I didn't say a word and slowly sat beside him.

I did not shake him when it dawned on me what even happened. I just couldn't touch him.

I firmly believe nothing can fix it. I don't consider souls to be real but I think that there is some vital wire that works only one time for you. The brain that allowed him to be him is now disconnected, the thought is rigidly unapproachable for even my understanding. Nothing would ever fix this.

I didn't question his decision to his corpse. Against movies and books' odd accounts of anguish, you just don't speak to the dead. I just sat there, waiting for something to push me out of this nerve-wracking silence but I also don't want to and somehow it feels like if we are, to the very least, sharing at least something, perhaps something final.

My eyes water again and I briefly recall us fighting over insignificances a couple of days ago. This time we didn't speak through it all like we used to. It doesn't even matters now but back then I wanted to convince myself that he meant it when he said that he didn't want to see me again and that sole sentence kept me from dialing him back. Did he do all of this out of spite? Did he want to punish me over our failures or was he just in a very dark, nihilistic state of mind?

I remind myself that I tend to commiserate too much about my pain but then again, why wouldn't I now? Is it any worth worrying over a corpse? After all, who else is in this room with me?

Against my will, I can't stop the realization from hitting me through my already shattered spirit and that's when I succumb and I probably cling to his arm for longer than I can remember. I cry and it doesn't sound pretty nor is it delicate, I'm gone through the rivers that now drown my very core. My nails hurt the skin of his arm and if he was still here, he would have slapped me off a while ago.

My head pounds but I can't stop, it hurts. God it hurts, I am devastated, my eyes are about to fall off their sockets and that is when I hear sirens in the distance and somehow I fear that they will take what is left of what I am so used to, very far away from my reach. I told myself that I already went through that the same moment he decided that it was not worth living for any longer.

It is the disturbance without melody, without a farewell. A couple of hours ago, Aksel just sat where he is now and grabbed a knife, no note, no last call, no nothing. Just anger and hopelessness, because the slits are harsh, I can almost promise that he wasn't as decided as he was upset with his life and the outcome of solace. The results proved to be lethal and somehow inconsiderate. When you love someone and you know for a damn fact that they love you back, there should not be a reasoning behind the seizing of your own life. There is not only your own heart that you are stopping.

Creasing moons form as my nails dent his arm, my sore eyes blink through another wave of distress, I can't tell that my troubled mind is clear with my thoughts about him, I want to fix it. I am still angry. But I just can't do anything. I am condemned to this petrifying feeling and he most likely knew I wouldn't be fine without him or maybe I can try to forgive his mishap by simply assuming that he forgot that he knew that.

Had I known the scope his dark mind would have- I would have probably done it first.

Not that it is too late now.

Because when death comes, nothing comes.

So I can't say something happened today.

"Was it simple?"

Aksel's face turns to me and he leans against my shoulder, he smiles as he pokes at my cheek, his wrist is fine "Is what simple Jaaz?"

His mouth kisses my cheek and he is very tender and noiseless as he does. He nuzzles affectionately against me so I decided to let it go "Nevermind." I close my eyes and the corner of my lips tug upwards, I finally feel at peace…

"Alright but," he speaks quietly against my ear, "You probably know that now silly."

I mouth a muted yes. It doesn't matter actually. Being dead is very simple. You just have to decide when you are not in a cataclysmic movie. The sirens are long gone, I don't think they'll come for us now.

.

.

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**AN/** Short one but after a whole half-year of absence, writing whatever comes to mind is always a good way to start. This piece is kind of dull but it's at least readable so I hope to finish the pending fics I still have.

:)


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